by Delia Ephron
My father’s future wife was standing off to the side. “Oh, Georgia, Richard,” I said. “This is Virginia Hazen.”
I could see Georgia scan Ginny, taking in every flowered inch, before she smiled and was gracious.
Georgia swept into the restaurant with us in her wake. “Mozell reservation for six, but we’re going to be seven this evening.” She followed the maître d’ to the table; we followed her, then stood stranded while she negotiated a table she preferred, a round one with a lazy Susan in the center.
“Isn’t this better?” she proclaimed as we all sat down. “Round tables are better for conversation than square. We almost bought an apartment but didn’t because the dining room was long and narrow.”
“What year was the building?” asked Philip.
“Prewar,” said Georgia.
“What you like drink?” asked the waiter, who had a somewhat incomplete knowledge of English. My father ordered a scotch and water. Richard ordered vermouth. After asking what kind of white wine they had, Georgia requested Chinese beer, and so did the rest of us.
“You order food now?” asked the waiter.
“We want the good stuff,” said my dad. “You take care of it, Georgia.”
She did: spareribs, egg rolls, shrimp fried rice, lobster Cantonese, chicken chow mein with extra almonds.
“Childhood Chinese,” said Adrienne.
“We’d all like chopsticks, except my father. Ginny, would you?” asked Georgia.
“Heavens no,” said Ginny.
“Five, then.”
My father put up his hand to stop the waiter from leaving. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
The waiter looked around, confused, but nodded politely.
“Who?” asked my father.
“No problem with chopsticks,” said the waiter, bowing slightly. The smile was still glued to his face, but clearly he was feeling he’d gotten caught in oncoming traffic.
“You’re talking to the fashion editor of Vogue.”
“Associate fashion editor.” These were the first words Richard had contributed to the conversation.
“And it’s Harper’s Bazaar, thank you very much,” said Georgia. She smiled at the waiter, dismissing him, and launched into a story, without taking a breath, about this eccentric famous fashion designer who took a stuffed animal everywhere, a teddy bear named Fred who even had his own seat at the Philharmonic. Georgia was one of the great ball carriers. Richard had married her probably to absolve himself of all social responsibility. Georgia absolved everyone. While she regaled us with how she had sent Fred flowers when he was in a doll hospital, I could hear Philip start in again on Ginny. “There are five renowned living architects,” he said to her. “I suppose you know who they are?”
“Lay off already.” I practically spit the words at him.
He clamped his mouth shut in a manner that indicated he had no intention of opening it ever again. Georgia hesitated a flick, just long enough for me and only me, her sister, to know she had noticed the interchange, before she continued to describe Fred’s itty-bitty smoking jacket.
“You done with this story yet?” my father inquired querulously.
“Why not?” Georgia agreeably answered.
“Good, let me tell you about the revolver.”
“What revolver?” I asked.
“Ever heard of Luck Runs Out?” he said to Adrienne.
“I know you wrote it. I’ve wanted to see it, but—”
“Great movie.” My dad cut her off. “Could have been as big as Casablanca if it had had a love story. Tell her how you met him, Eve.”
“Who?” asked Ginny.
“John Wayne, who else? So he’s a Republican, so what?”
“I was five years old and I remember nothing.”
“He patted her on the head and told her her old man could write. Gave me a revolver when we finished shooting. Said he’d carried the damn thing in every movie he’d ever made.”
“I thought he gave you a bullet.”
“Who was there, were you there?” My father’s voice was suddenly loud. He waved his sparerib menacingly, and mustard sauce fell on his shirt. “I’ll be right back.” He got up, knocking his chair into the woman seated at the table behind. Richard quickly jumped up and righted the chair as my father lurched his way through the diners. I didn’t turn but followed his course in a wall mirror. After he left the room, he stopped in the bar, ordered two more drinks, and downed them.
Did anyone else see? I caught Georgia’s eye.
She unsnapped her purse, fished around, and took out a small pillbox.
“Only Georgia would have a pillbox,” Adrienne pointed out later.
“She was rescuing me,” I declared.
“Did you hear what Richard said?”
“What?”
“He pointed out that Georgia was associate fashion editor. That was hostile.”
“No, it wasn’t, Adrienne. He’s an uptight lawyer. They’re always trying to be technically correct.”
“I don’t think so,” said Adrienne.
Anyway, Georgia took out a Valium. Carefully, even ceremoniously, she placed the tranquilizer on the edge of the lazy Susan, gave it a spin, then stopped it when the Valium was in front of me. As I picked up the pill, she pinched one out for herself and raised her teacup in a silent toast.
“Dad said he was going to marry her. I think he’d met her that week. And Philip was unbelievably obnoxious. We would have had a huge fight on the way downtown, but Georgia had given me a Valium and I fell asleep practically before I walked in the door. In fact, Adrienne had wanted me to watch Citizen Kane so I could see her favorite moment, but I barely made it to the bed.”
“What’s her favorite moment?”
“Have you seen the movie, Maddy?”
“No.”
“Then it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
“I know I didn’t go to college, but I’m eighteen years old and capable of understanding something in a movie even if I haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t even know what the moment is. I shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, Dad didn’t pick up the check, Richard had to. Do you know Richard didn’t say one thing throughout the meal except for pointing out that Georgia was not fashion editor but associate fashion editor. Is that hostile or what? He hardly talks. Maybe he doesn’t have a tongue.”
“He has a tongue. He stuck it down my throat.”
“Madeline, are you serious?”
“Remember when he was out here? And he took me to dinner? Georgia ordered him to, I guess. I borrowed these Greek sandals with straps going all the way up my legs because I thought it would really freak him out. Also, I picked a Mexican restaurant. When he walked me to my car, he kissed me on the mouth and stuck his tongue down my throat.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing. I said, ‘Thanks for dinner,’ and slammed the door.”
“Oh God, should we tell Georgia?”
“I’m not telling Georgia.”
“But wouldn’t you want to know if you were married to someone who French-kissed your sister?”
The operator cut in. “I have an emergency call for Eve Mozell.”
“Oh my God! Okay, operator, I’m getting off.”
“Let me know what it’s about, okay?”
“Okay. Bye, Maddy.” I hung up. “It’s an emergency call,” I yelled to Adrienne as the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Eve.”
“What’s wrong, Georgia, is it you and Richard?”
“Why would it be me and Richard?”
“I don’t know, I just didn’t know why you were making an emergency call.”
“Our father bought three houses, a car, and a bicycle.”
“Since we had dinner with him? Since last week?”
“Actually, he bought them all in one day.”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course you can do that. Ginny took him to Westchester. Why would you think this call was a
bout me and Richard?”
“I don’t know. It just flew into my head. Dad can’t afford three houses.”
“We know that, Eve. Thank God Richard’s a lawyer. He’ll get Dad out of it. He can get anyone out of anything. Thank God.”
“Thank God.”
“I talked to my therapist. He says we should put Dad in Bloomingdale’s.”
I did not ask if he was being sent to a department store. It did not seem likely. “Bloomingdale’s will take care of it?” I said cautiously, a very slight question at the end. Maybe, on some floor I’ve never been to, there is therapeutic shopping. My father is given money, set loose, and he has to not spend it. He learns to control himself at Bloomingdale’s and then is no longer tempted to buy three houses, a car, and a bicycle. I shook my head at Adrienne, who was standing in the doorway, trying to make sense of all this.
“He’s drinking like a fish and taking God knows what else. They’ll dry him out and then determine what’s wrong with him. They’re absolutely brilliant at drugs. I’m sure psychotherapy is a waste of time. My shrink says the best thing to do is ambush him tonight.”
“Right now? Can’t we wait until tomorrow morning?”
“Now,” said Georgia.
When my taxi pulled up, she was waiting in front of Dad’s building. Even in crisis, she looked pulled together: her hair brushed and shiny, probably a hint of blush, definitely lipstick. She stood her usual ramrod straight and had actually taken the trouble to accessorize her suit with a silver dangling pendant in the shape of a lima bean. Well, it’s important to look nice when you’re going to a department store, otherwise how can you tell what anything will look like on you? Georgia had told me this once when I met her to go shopping dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, which was what I was wearing now.
Georgia smiled down the doorman. “We’re going to visit my father, don’t bother to ring.” We sped by and into the elevator. “I’m dreading this,” I said. She stood there silently, swinging the lima bean back and forth. We got out at six and she pressed the buzzer.
No answer. She tried the door. It was unlocked. An unlocked New York apartment? What did this mean? Had he been beaten and robbed? Georgia turned the knob slowly and pushed the door in an inch. A blast of music. “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.”
“Not dead,” said Georgia. “Definitely not dead. Dad!” she called.
“In here.”
He and Ginny were sitting at a card table in the living room. A bicycle-built-for-two was parked nearby, and the only other piece of furniture was a couch upholstered in a flowered print very similar to the sort Ginny favored in her pantsuits. The couch still had plastic on it.
“Hi, girls,” said Ginny.
“Gin.” My father laid down his cards, grabbed the bills in the center of the table, and stuffed them in his pocket.
“I lost again,” Ginny said good-naturedly. “Heavens, I can’t beat the man.”
“Would you mind leaving?” Georgia was her most imperious. “We’d like to talk to our father.”
“I’ll be out of here in a jiff.” Ginny swallowed the rest of her red wine and picked up her shoulder bag. “I hope we’re going to be good friends.” She stood on tiptoe to peck me on the cheek, then went for Georgia, who took a step backward. “Well, I’ll be toddling off.”
“Hey, guess what your old man did. I bought three houses today.”
“We know,” said Georgia.
“Was it on the AP?”
“No, you called and told me.”
“Three houses.” He shook his head happily. “It’s the trifecta.”
“Dad, sit down,” Georgia ordered.
“Georgia, were you ever young?” asked my dad.
Georgia ignored him. “Sit down, Dad.”
“Who made you king? That’s what I want to know.”
“Goddamnit, shut up,” I shouted. My dad stared at me.
“We’re taking you to the hospital,” said Georgia. “You’re out of control.”
“Go to hell.” My father started wheeling the bicycle to the door.
“Where are you going?” Georgia demanded.
“Out. Perchance to ride. Perchance to live.”
Perchance? What drama was he in? Who was he playing?
Georgia barred the door. Stood in front like a sentry. “You’re drunk and you’re crazy.”
“But I’m not married to Richard,” said my father.
“Shut up,” I screamed. “Put down that stupid bicycle.” Tears were running down my cheeks. I’m doing this only for effect, I told myself. If I flip out, he’ll shape up. This will scare him.
“Dry up, you’re faking,” said my dad.
How did he know? How could he tell? “I’m not faking, don’t tell me I’m faking,” I screamed louder.
“Calm down,” said Georgia quietly. “Dad, if you do not get in the car with us and check into the hospital, you are never going to see Eve or me again.”
My father thought about this. His tongue moved over to one side of his mouth and poked out his cheek.
“Go to hell,” he said again, but without conviction. He tried to turn the bicycle around, but it was too big for the entryway.
“I’ll take it,” said Georgia. “Eve, pack some of Dad’s clothes, would you?”
I went into his room and opened his closet. In the corner was a wilted nylon suitcase. I placed it on the bed, which was unmade, and opened a bureau drawer. His clothes were all rumpled in a heap. I didn’t want to touch them. It felt dangerous. There could be a surprise hidden in this mess.
I squinted a little so I couldn’t really see what I was picking up, as I packed socks, underwear, and with luck pajamas. Fortunately, in the next drawer I found clean shirts with cardboard in them. Safe shirts. I was working really fast. I zipped the suitcase and took a suit out of the closet. I layered an extra sports jacket over it, and carried everything to the living room.
My dad was on the couch, refusing to look at Georgia or me. She was at the card table, shuffling the deck over and over.
“I guess I’ve packed enough.”
“Where are we going?” my father asked.
“Bloomingdale’s.”
He did a slow take. “Is it open now?”
“That’s what they call New York Hospital’s psychiatric facility in Westchester,” said Georgia. “It’s on Bloomingdale Road. They’re going to dry you out and find out why you’re acting strange.”
“I’m not strange,” my father shouted.
“You are strange,” I shouted back.
“Come on, Dad,” said Georgia. It was not a request.
My father got up. Georgia grasped his arm, but he pulled away. He took a beat to stand tall, to right his shoulders. Now I knew the part he was playing. He was Alec Guinness in some English prisoner-of-war movie. He was about to be marched into solitary in The Bridge on the River Kwai. You can lock me up, beat me, starve me, but you’ll never destroy my dignity. Playing this part and loving every minute of it, he walked steadily, though shakily, to the door.
We said nothing, through the door, into the elevator, out of the elevator, and into the limousine, which Richard had hired. We said nothing all the way up the Hutchinson River Parkway to White Plains and Bloomingdale Road.
“It looks like Sarah Lawrence College,” Georgia observed when we turned into the hospital complex of ivy-covered brick buildings. That was the only comment anyone made, except for my father’s final “Go to hell” when he signed himself in and was led away.
It was close to three in the morning when Georgia and I left.
I sat in the limousine rubbing my eyes. “Don’t.” Georgia pulled my hands down. “Don’t ever tug at your face.”
“I was mushing, I wasn’t tugging.”
“Just don’t. Your face is falling anyway. It starts falling the day you’re born.” She searched inside her purse. “Aha.” Triumphantly she held up a black square of paper. “After Eights.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a chocolate-covered mint inside a little envelope all its own. It may be the greatest thing the English ever invented.” She handed it over, then located one for herself.
We nibbled our mints. “Was it ever nice at home? I don’t remember if it was ever nice.”
“Oh, it was,” said Georgia. “Remember how Dad used to take us shopping for dresses?”
“Because Mom didn’t want to.”
“True. But he loved to so much. ‘My daughters need clothes.’ Georgia puffed up her chest, imitating him. “He would announce it so everyone noticed us.”
“What else?”
“We played games at dinner, charades or twenty questions. Sometimes Maddy sang ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ and we would all sit with our napkins clamped over our mouths so we wouldn’t laugh.”
“I remember. She was totally tone-deaf. Why did she ever imagine she could become a rock star?” I thought about Maddy at age five, in her red Dr. Denton’s, pouring her heart into “Five go-old rings” as she stood on her stage, my parents’ coffee table. “Georgia?”
“What?”
“Remember earlier tonight when I was screaming?”
“Yes.” She said this in a very kind way.
“I was pretending. How did he know that?”
“You weren’t pretending. You flipped out. Don’t you ever read The Magazine?” She always called Harper’s Bazaar The Magazine, as if there were only one published in the world.
“I look at the pictures.”
“Eve, last month they reviewed a book called Outside Inside. By this psychologist. It was fascinating. The thesis is—”
Thesis. My brain was too tired for that word.
“When a person freaks out, sometimes they step outside themselves and watch. Outside, inside, get it? It’s a kind of self-protection. Do you still have last month’s issue?”
“I don’t know.”
She patted my hand. “I’ll send you a copy.”
I was getting drowsy, drifting into a half-sleep where everything seemed quite pleasant. If only I could have stayed in this big solid car, being carried along in some direction safe from fathers and telephones. I lay back, with my head resting on the top of the seat, and stretched my legs. I could just see the tops of the trees go by, and then the tops of buildings when we got into the city. We dropped Georgia off. Then the driver took me home.